The Shadows of Justice Read Online Free

voyage through rocks and storms.
    After the discussion with Adam, Dan jogged back to the cordon to find exactly the cast he expected assembled. Brothers, if not in arms, then in the words and pictures of the media. Nigel was filming the scenes of crime officers going about their careful work and the policeman on guard duty. The cameraman was dressed in tatty jeans covered in white paint and a pullover upon which many a moth had grown fat. The ensemble was a sure sign of a scramble call.
    Next to Nigel lurked the chubby, wild-haired, modern-day Machiavellian court jester that was Dirty El, camera fixed unerringly to his eye. He was wearing a familiar grimy, battered body warmer, bulging and misshapen with spare lenses, cloths, batteries, light meters, and all the disreputable armaments of the paparazzi kind.
    “Ta for the tip off,” he chirped, without lowering the lens. “Not another snapper in sight and I’m filling me memory card full of cash.”
    Behind both, sitting in the satellite truck and complaining, as ran the script of his life, brooded the champion misanthrope that was Loud. “What kind of bloody story breaks on a Friday night?” he grumbled, beard twitching in time with the moans. “I was going out for a curry. A hot one, with a nice fat naan bread.”
    Loud patted his stomach. The blue, red and yellow Hawaiian shirt was already straining to contain his impressive girth. Had the garment known what a taxing fate awaited it, the manufacturers may have riveted on the buttons, rather than sewn.
    Dan put on a placating smile, the kind a parent might adopt for a recalcitrant toddler. He took the talkback unit which linked the outside broadcast truck to the studio and slipped the moulded plastic coil into his ear.
    Rutherford was starting to pull at the lead again, so Dan pushed him into the safety of the van. The dog immediately started growling.
    “Hey, what?” Loud protested. “What’s his problem?”
    “He’s got good taste,” Dan muttered.
    “What?”
    “I said he’s not keen on facial hair. But keep still and quiet and he probably won’t savage you.”
    In Dan’s ear came the sound of the studio preparing for the newsflash. Nigel had positioned the camera with the police tape and sentry officer in the background.
    “This is Emma in the Plymouth gallery,” the director’s voice broke through. “We’re on air in three minutes. We’ve got 30 seconds exactly.”
    Dan grabbed a piece of paper and began scribbling notes. The newsreader’s introduction would take about five seconds. Following the broadcaster’s rough rule of three words a second, he had 75.
    “On air in two and a half,” came Emma’s voice again.
    “Move to your left a little please,” Nigel said. “I want to get more of the scene in the background.”
    Dan shifted, but continued working on his words.
    Two minutes .
    The door of a bar crashed open and shouting echoed down the street. A group of young lads had seen the satellite truck. They tumbled out and began yelling abuse. Some was of a scale that might make even Channel Four think twice about broadcasting it.
    Ninety seconds .
    The men lurched over, juggling pints and bottles of beer, splashes spilling onto the pavement. One made a play of getting down on his knees to lick up the sacred liquid. Others formed a line and began dancing a conga, singing, We’re all on the telly, we’re all on the telly . Another ran into the background, bared his rear and patted a tune in time. The pallid, pasty flesh proudly sported a Plymouth Argyle Football Club tattoo, and a large one given the expanse of available space.
    Yet again a fundamental rule of the TV business had been proven in an instant. The camera is a magnet for the insane, drunk, stupid or simply offensive. Whatever the limits of their faculties, they can somehow sense television being made from a range of several miles and are inexorably drawn towards it.
    Sixty seconds .
    “We can’t go on air like this,” Nigel